


FitzSimmons Network Monthly Prompts

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Team Bus - Freeform, Team Playground - Freeform, all the brotps, canon compatible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Approx 6 drabbles or ficlets/month based on prompts from Tumblr's TheFitzSimmonsNetwork. All FS-centric with various other characters & relationships. Settings, moods & ratings may vary - will be given at beginning of each 'chapter'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> January Prompt #1: Thirst.  
> Canon-compatible. Set early S3. Hurt/comfort, mild angst.

-

Her hand shook. Her muscles were still weak and it was already taking an inordinate amount of concentration, in all the light and noise, to accept what was being offered to her. She’d only just graduated from plastic cups back to glass, and she’d forgotten to account for the condensation – it was too slippery in her palm, and her other hand was too slow to move. The glass exploded on the floor.

It was all she could do not to scream. She cowered away from the sound, wrapping into herself. It was loud enough to hurt like a solid weapon, like a sword through her head. She pressed her hands against her ears.

Fitz gently led her away, pressing her backward so that she didn’t have to respond to anything else visual or auditory; only concentrate on his touch. A few metres away from the site, tucked around a corner in the hallway where the now-hushed voices of the others were muted, Fitz stood with her until her breathing calmed and she straightened.

“Are you okay?” he asked. She held her hands out between them, examining them for cuts.

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I just dropped it, that’s all. Still adjusting, I suppose. Glass is heavier than plastic.”

Fitz watched her glance worriedly back toward the living area.

“Daisy’s cleaning up,” he explained. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another – glass or plastic?”

Simmons shook her head.

“I’ll be alright.”

But she exercised her mouth afterward, feeling how dry and clammy it was. Fitz frowned. Simmons bit her lip in frustration; she should have known he’d watch her for that.

“Jemma,” he assured her. “We have as much water as you want. We have more water than we know what to do with, here. You don’t have to ration it or deny yourself any more.”

His hands were gentle on hers. His eyes were consumed with concern. She could tell he wanted to pull her close like he used to when she was stressed like this, but he didn’t want to push her boundaries.

“Glass or plastic?” he offered again.

“Glass,” she resolved. “And I’ll get it myself.”

She marched back out, past concerned but now silent faces, and into the kitchen. Swiftly and confidently, she pulled a glass down from the cupboard, but she froze when she got to the sink, anticipating the shrieking whistle of the faucet. Fitz padded into the kitchen behind her, but stayed a comfortable distance away, perched on the bench and only watching out of the corner of his eye. After a long moment staring into the sink, Simmons sighed and put the glass down.

“I think I should go back to bed. My eyes are going funny again. Can you bring me some water and ibuprofen please?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiled encouragingly as she turned and hobbled past him. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and attempted a smile back, as his hopeful face threatened to drown her in everything she hadn’t said.


	2. Just because

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> January Prompt #2: Wintertime.  
> Canon-compatible. Future, est. rshp. Fluff.  
> ft. Daisy, Bobbi, Hunter.

inspired by [this artwork](http://eclecticmuses.tumblr.com/post/136922051286/heres-the-finished-winter-fitzsimmons-fluff) by eclecticmuses on tumblr.

-

“Oooh, very classy,” Daisy teased, as Simmons showed off her very own, neat white lace-up skates; a strong contrast to the rather clunky, plastic-y pair Daisy was carrying over from the hire stand.

“My parents sent me a pair when I moved to Boston,” Simmons explained. “I haven’t used them for a few years. It’s nice to see they still fit.”

“Yeah, well,” Fitz put in, “with your bloody princess feet, of course they would.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow at Simmons.

“My parents sent him a pair too,” she explained. “Brown leather. Beautiful. He grew out of them in two years.”

“Now I’m stuck with these hideous contraptions,” he muttered, gesturing to the blue and black plastic pair, like Daisy’s, that he was begrudgingly strapping to his feet. 

“Not for long,” Simmons whispered, grinning at Daisy where Fitz couldn’t see. Daisy nodded, biting back her own smile in case Fitz could see her over Simmons’ shoulder. She squeezed into the seat between them and hurried to put her skates on before she missed whatever was about to happen.

“Finally!” Bobbi’s exasperated voice called, moments later. Hunter at her elbow, she jogged down the snowy slope toward them, cradling a large box wrapped in brown paper under one arm. “Sorry we’re late. This one kept giving the cab driver the wrong address.”

“Excuse you,” Hunter objected. “ _This_ one insisted we just quickly dash _across town_ right at the last minute.”

“It was important,” Bobbi retorted. Flipping her fringe out of her face, she held the box out to Simmons.

“Alright, so now that’s sorted, are we skating or what?” Fitz stood up and waddled forward, gesturing to the lake they’d been sitting around for a good fifteen minutes. 

“I think you’ll want to open this first,” Simmons offered, passing the box to him. 

“This is for me?”

“No, I just make you open my priority packages in case of contamination.” 

Fitz narrowed his eyes. It could very easily be a prank. Confetti or slime or who knows what could burst out of there the second he opened it. She wouldn’t have put anything too scary in there though – it was a public place, after all. And it could just be a perfectly innocent present. Not that he could remember the last time she’d given him a perfectly innocent present.

“So are we skating, or what?” Daisy prodded, mimicking him.

Finally, Fitz tore the wrapping off, and shoved the lid of the box underneath, into Daisy’s arms.

“Jemma!” he gasped.

Simmons let her grin expand into a full beam. 

“You’re welcome.”

“But what - What’s this for?”

She shrugged. “Just because. Lots of reasons. Because I love you.”

Fitz passed the whole box to Daisy, and Simmons stepped into the empty space in his arms to give him a long, slow kiss, warm enough that he could almost feel his nose again.


	3. The Same Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that look between them at the end of 3x09.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February Prompt #1: Strength  
> Canon-compat. Future. Angst, hurt/comfort.  
> TW: blood, torture mention. Rated T

Fitz looked over his shoulder as he was led away, his expression at once a promise and a plea. _Be strong._

Simmons didn’t look away until he’d disappeared from sight. Even then, she waited a few seconds, just in case they brought him back, or somebody asked who might let themselves be taken in his place. When nobody came, she finally drew breath, and loosened the deadly grip she had on the bars of their cell. Without their white-knuckled hold, her hands felt unsteady. Numb, almost. Without his reassuring presence – his touch, even his breath – beside her, the world spun. She remembered what had been done to her. How scared she’d been. How loud she’d screamed. The thought that they were about to do it all to him…

Her breath stuttered in her throat. She tried to hold onto that last image of his eyes, begging that she be strong – stronger than he had been, strong enough for the both of them, while his strength was drained and beaten away. He was taking strength from her, too. From the knowledge that she was with him through this; that even when they had nothing – not even the air in their lungs – they still had each other.

Maybe they couldn’t read each other’s minds, but they knew each other’s hearts. Fitz would never give up. Not on her, and not on SHIELD. No matter what they did to him. And he knew that she would never give up either. He considered himself weak, for having caved when they’d hurt her, but he did not see her as that weak. He knew she’d be able to hold on. As much as it pained her, as many tears as she might cry, she would not give them what they wanted as long as he was willing to endure their pain.

Simmons swallowed, and clenched her fists until she could feel them again. The ground solidified beneath her feet. The bitter stench of stale air and rusting metal hit her senses like a wave and she breathed it in. This horror was real, but it was only human horror. They could only do what they could do.

Images of vicious lacerations, horrific sleep deprivation, brainwashing devices, and injuries self-inflicted by victims of fear serums flickered through her mind.

She swallowed again, and ground her teeth together, blinking the tears out of her eyes and feeling them burn their way down her face. Again, she told herself, the perpetrators were human. They could be overcome, stopped, even killed. She and Fitz would be rescued, or would figure out how to rescue themselves, long before they would break. 

The first strangled shout cut clean through the air. It was followed by a second, louder, venting yell. 

Simmons took a deep breath. She paced the room briefly, but then sat. No need to build anxiety. No need to display her fear. They already knew it was there, otherwise they wouldn’t be using this as a tactic.

She sat and listened to the scuttling of rats somewhere out of sight, and to the dripping of a tap, or a broken sink. As these grew louder, they came to match the sounds of Fitz’ pain. It all became noise – but not meaningless noise. Aside from venting his pain and satisfying his torturers, Fitz was communicating to her that he was still alive and responsive. The rats told her there were ways in and out, and even if they were small ones only meant for wires and plumbing, she and Fitz could make do. The tap or sink suggested that there were facilities nearby intended for keeping people for extended periods of time. That if they did not give up what was requested today, they would be kept until they did. They were unlikely to be intentionally killed.

_CRACK_

He screamed like she’d never heard him scream before. He hadn’t been prepared for whatever it was. Her eye snapped open, her mind reeling. A hammer? A baton? His fingers, his knees? 

She fought to control her breathing, desperate to hear over it. Anything. Whimpering or crying. The sound of them hitting him again. At this moment she’d even have taken the sound of him confessing everything, over the silence that met her when she held her breath.

“Walls are thick,” a voice pointed out. “So we only get to hear the fun stuff.”

Simmons turned, glaring through the darkness to find the source of the voice. It was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. They were speaking from the cell next door, but she couldn’t see anybody there. She got up and moved toward it, her heart racing, starkly aware of the continuing silence in the belly of the beast.

“The thing about torture is, everyone thinks they can take it.” 

A face appeared between the bars, taking possession of the voice. All of a sudden, Simmons remembered with horror, where it was she knew him from. 

“Turgeon?” 

“Everybody has a breaking point. They already know his. Think about it. This is about trying to find yours.”

“Of course it is. Why do you think they’re trying this?”

“They will succeed. You know they will.” 

“Never.” 

“You’d let them kill him to keep your secrets?”

“If they kill him, they’ll never get our secrets. They know that.”

“Hmm.” Turgeon pursed his lips, wishing he could be amused by her refusal to understand, but finding himself disappointed – maybe even a little heartbroken.

“You know, there’s only one sink here,” he pointed out. “Only one cell. No windows. No bars on the doors. They’re steel, with just a slit for food. They can keep you alive for an awful long time. But only one of you. In the dark. Alone. With years and years to contemplate why you let him die. Not much seems worth it, after that.”

“They won’t get anything from me. On his life or on his memory.” 

“But he’ll still be dead.”

“Ah. So what you’re saying is, ‘tell them, and pray they don’t kill you both once they’re done with you’. I have to say I’m disinclined.”

Backing away with a sharp smile and a glare, Simmons resumed her earlier position, sitting on the floor and facing the doorway.

“What I’m saying,” Turgeon corrected, “is that there’s not enough time for somebody to come for you. What I’m saying is, you have to get yourselves out, and quickly, because one of you _will_ die unless you do.”

Simmons glanced back at him, fully prepared to chew him out for providing positively useless advice and no hints whatsoever.

But nobody was there.

Frowning, she stood, and walked back toward his cell. Was he hidden in the shadows? Was there some corner he was hiding around that she couldn’t see?

The door at the end of the cell corridor flung open. Heavy, staggering steps ran toward her. Simmons jumped, distracted, and turned to where a blood-smeared Fitz was fumbling at the cell door with one hand. The other hung limply by his side. Simmons stood, stunned and horrified, as Fitz pulled the door open, his face contorting in agony as he desperately tried not to move his injured arm. He could barely stand straight.

“Come on,” he insisted. “We’ve gotta go.”

“But-“ she followed him automatically, while her brain struggled to catch up. “But – how?”

He checked around a corner, and turned briefly to smile at her. 

“I asked myself, what would Simmons do? Not sit around and take a beating, that’s for sure. So I escaped. Took me a few goes though.” 

He nodded at his arm; dislocated, she realised, and possibly broken too. It was not so long ago that he would have paled at the thought of dislocation, especially dislocating one’s own appendages. Clearly he still wasn’t too well-versed in the art, but he seemed almost unfazed by the blood, and by whatever had been done to cause the aggressively one-sided limp he was nursing. His mind was on one track, and that track was to escape.

_What would Simmons do?_

“That’s…” 

“Amazing?” – he paused to groan and grind his teeth as his bad arm bumped the wall they hid against. “Thanks, but I’m going to have to ask you to save your flattery until we get out of here.” 

He stumbled forward, to open the door and lead the escape out into the snow. Though well aware of the need to reach cover before alarm bells started ringing, Simmons paused a moment and tilted her head, her heart aching as she watched him struggle on unaided.

_What would Fitz do?_

His words had driven her to wonder, but it only took a second for her to know.

“Lean on me,” she insisted, running to his side and pulling him onto her shoulder. He nodded, exhausted. His eyes fluttered closed, and Simmons couldn’t help but smile at the endearingly sleepy expression on his face, satisfied with his part of the mission being complete. 

“Stay with me,” she insisted. “Stay awake til we get out of here.” 

He nodded again, putting effort into keeping his eyes open, and making sure his feet bore on, one in front of the other. Simmons took a deep breath. His adrenalin was clearly wearing off. The pain would come back in full force any second. They had no communications, and no transport, and they could only assume there was a boundary fence somewhere ahead of them. Bracing her shoulders and back for the weight of two people, Simmons continued on into the forest, and began to think of a plan.


	4. Page One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The science babies read biographies + fluffy foreshadowing, potentially followed up later in this collection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February Prompt #2: History  
> Academy-era, canon compat. Fluff. Rated low T for sexual references.

“Honey, I’m home!” Fitz grinned, shaking the paper bag of donuts as he walked through the door. Simmons looked up – at the sound of inviting treats, or his voice, she’d never tell. 

“What sort of time do you call this?” she joked back, putting a finger near the binding of her book to mark her place so that she could sit up and turn to face him. He passed her a plate with a donut on it, smiling, having pre-empted the request not to get sugar and cinnamon on her nice clean carpet.

“Sorry I’m late. Professor Vaughn got excited about containment units again. He actually asked if I would come to a lecture next week to show mine off.”

“Are you going to?”

Fitz shrugged. “I don’t know…it’s only a prototype. I haven’t quite got it how I want it. It’s still got 5% leak, but I think I can get it to 2.”

“Oh no!” Simmons gasped in mock horror. “We can’t let anyone know we have drafts!”

Fitz laughed, but shook his head.

“No, seriously, I don’t like showing off when it’s not my best work.”

Simmons rolled her eyes.

“One day you’ll find that thing you’re proud of, and you won’t be able to shut up about it. Until then, let other people bask in your glory. It won’t do anybody any harm.”

Fitz chewed his donut thoughtfully. A blush rose in his cheeks and he lowered his eyes. They fell on Simmons’ book, where it rested in her lap. The cover was a sepia photograph, obscured by the angle and her hands, but the book was curious: unusually small, old, and paperback. 

“Is that a novel?” he wondered.

“Hm?” She checked the cover, as if she’d forgotten what she had been reading. “Oh, no, it’s Peggy Carter’s biography. One of them, anyway. The best, according to the Internet, is the one by Edwin Jarvis, Tony Stark’s butler. Apparently he knew her quite intimately. They’re quite difficult to track down, unfortunately. This one’s not bad, though. Brilliant on the history of SHIELD and the SSR and all that. Just a little impersonal, you know?”

“Can’t say I’ve read that many biographies.” Fitz shrugged.

“You read Tony Stark’s.”

“Yes, because he’s brilliant, but he’s also an asshole. And it’s like every five paragraphs there was a break for – for –“

“Sex?” Simmons giggled. “You can say the word, Fitz. We’re all aware of the concept.”

“It’s not like it was graphic,” he continued. “I just didn’t need to know about that part of his life. And – I mean – he wasn’t even directly disrespectful, most of the time. It’s just, something about doing that, I don’t know…it bugs me.”

“Aw. You’re very sweet, Fitz. I hope whoever takes your man flower treats you well.”

“Ugh, don’t call it that!” Fitz pulled a face. “Gross. Look at this. I can’t even eat my donut now. Thanks.” 

“Give it two minutes.” 

“Ha ha.” He sneered at her and stood up, presumably to make tea. Simmons smiled to herself and hid behind her book, quietly confident. A few minutes later, tea appeared at her elbow, but Fitz didn’t say anything. As she moved her hand to take it from the coffee table, she glanced over the top of her book at him. He was huddled like she was, but on the other end of the sofa. _A Brief History of Time_ was propped up on his lap, and as promised, tea and his donut remained untouched on his end of the table. He stared at the open pages, unfocused.

“Fitz?” Simmons checked after a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Ah,” he sighed, brushing her off. “It’s not your fault. Just some stuff some of the other guys were saying. Bragging an’…stuff…It was really awful, I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Okay.” She jabbed him playfully with her toe. “Tell me when I say mean things, okay? I don’t have a great filter. And we clearly have different views about…”

“Sex?” Fitz grinned, like he was discovering something - pretending as if he really never had said the word before. “Huh. That wasn’t so bad.”

He picked up his donut and took a bite. Chewing, he settled back against the couch to read, and unconsciously licked his fingers clean one by one. Careful to hide her face behind her book, Simmons bit her lip and hoped the blush creeping up the back of her neck was not too obvious.


	5. Eventually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March Prompt #2: Eventually  
> Fluff. Multiverse.

There is a universe, believe it or not, where Fitz and Simmons actually do hate each other. He thinks she’s a snobby brat; not the greatest mind with which his lifetime will ever intersect. She thinks he’s arrogant, rude and ungrateful; not the sweetest heart she could ever have the pleasure and the privilege of calling her own.

There is also a universe – several, in fact - where they have never met. One where they lived their whole lives a decent train ride from one another and never had the chance. One where he stayed, and she roamed as far and wide as her career would take. Another where she climbed the ranks of academia while he worked for a pittance to keep a roof over his own head. Or where she stayed to help her sick parents, and Fitz left for the United States to follow his dreams.

And those are only the ones where they were scientists. Somewhere Fitz is a great inventor, a poet, a teacher, a counselor. Somewhere, he’s a criminal mastermind. Somewhere, a mechanic. Somewhere, Simmons is a world-class dressage champion, a lawyer, a journalist, an astronaut. Somewhere, she is an air hostess. Somewhere, Prime Minister.

There are of course, billions of universes in which neither of them are born at all. Then there are millions more in which one or both of them die: birth defects, war, traffic accidents, plane crashes, robbery, suicide, sacrifice. The list goes on. There are universes where they pass each other on the street. Where they are meaningless faces on the same train. Where they see each other every day, and the feelings never blossom – or they do, for one and never the other – or for both, but they are restricted by conventions and commitments they hold dearer than their own hearts.

Somewhere, in all these millions of billions of universes, there is one where they have survived home life, found each other, lived side by side, and been torn apart by time and circumstance and injury and miscommunication. They have fought for each other against the sky and the earth and the ocean, against their friends as well as their enemies, and even against another planet. In this universe, they once consoled each other at the bottom of the ocean, knowing that to die together was all they could ever ask. In this universe, it took them a destructively long time afterward to realise all that it meant, but all that time, they never lost the meaning. Somehow, they had always known.

In this universe, it is a quiet Sunday night in early Fall, no different from so many others that this Fitz and this Simmons have shared with each other. Except that this time, they both finally know. They are both finally on the same page. All the unlikely pieces have fallen together, and Fitz and Simmons are falling asleep on the lounge as if the exhaustion of every universe in which they never end up here, now, has settled over their shoulders.

“I suppose it’s true, isn’t it,” Simmons murmurs, studying the union of hers and Fitz’ hands through steadily drooping eyelids.

“What’s true?” Fitz murmurs back, and nuzzles closer to her. She smiles warmly, and lets her eyes drop closed at long last with a satisfied sigh.

“That everything happens eventually.”


	6. Red and Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February Prompt #3: Fire  
> Not-exactly-smut? First time (+ sweet/awkward). Rated M.

They spun through the door, smiling and kissing, until all of a sudden Fitz’ breath was taken away again. Simmons felt his distraction, and bit a knuckle. Her stomach flipped as she watched him take in the room; rich reds, creams and golds. Lucious material. A fondue set on one bedside table and a crackling fire. It felt removed from the world outside: a timeless place for lovers and passion and intimacy.

“I know this is not what you meant by special,” she explained. “But I wanted it to be this kind of special too.”

“Wow, Jemma.” He sunk into the mattress and leaned back, running his hands over soft, smooth sheets. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She took her time laying down beside him, and he realised that she’d colour coded her outfit to the room; red lipstick, and a shimmering golden dress, so that she stood out against the bedsheets in the most enticing of ways.

“You should have told me to coordinate.” He was unable to manage much more than a murmur, all but struck dumb by the whole situation as he slid his hand across the ridiculously lush covers and up her neck to her cheek. She smiled.

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “You look fantastic. And if I have any say in matters, neither of us will be wearing anything for much longer.”

With a smirk, she leaned across the space between them to kiss him on her way to standing up. He sat up too, drawn to her, watching as she unclipped the dress from her shoulder, and let the shimmering material drop to the floor. Fitz’ eyes widened immediately, hungry to take in the sight of her. For all the world, she was indistinguishable from Aphrodite as she stood there for his perusal. Her bright red lipstick and modestly laced white underwear struck a perfect balance between purity and sensuality, and made his breath catch.

“Do you like them?” she asked, blush finally rising to her cheeks. “I was afraid I might look a little like a candy cane.”

“N-no, no,” he stammered after a moment. “No, it’s…I mean, they’re…”

“Great! Good. Sorry. Continue staring.”

She flourished her wrists, re-posing. Fitz bit his tongue, and grinned. 

“Actually…” he tried, standing up and catching her elbows. “I think I’d rather touch.”

“Oh, you’re good at this,” Simmons praised, catching his lips between hers a few times. “Very smooth.”

“Oh, you like that?”

He picked her up, making her shriek with laughter as he dropped her back onto the bed and crawled over her, trapping the heat between their bodies.

“Sorry about your hair,” he murmured.

“The hair spray job is quite secure,” Simmons promised. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to mess it up.”

Accepting her challenge, he slid his hand into her hair and pulled her face upward to kiss him. Simmons’ hands clawed hungrily at his buttons, feeling their way over the curves and ridges as he moved so that she could undo them and sneak her hands underneath the material while his lips were distracted by hers.

It was getting harder to focus, harder to breathe, as Fitz’ free hand wandered down her body. He ran a finger, light and teasing, over the lacy ridges of her bra, then down her side, where normally, she was ticklish. He ran a hot hand over her belly and round her back, making her twitch and squirm as the sensations changed. But Simmons was no amateur, and she was determined to live up to her promise, so she persevered: once she’d finished opening his shirt, she worked his belt, and the fly of his pants. 

As her fingers ventured below his waistline, she noticed his touch get noticeably more hesitant, and his kisses drop off, smaller and less confident and committed as he tried to acclimatise to her presence. She kissed back gently, encouragingly.

“Remember, we can stop whenever you want,” she assured him. “Special doesn’t mean necessary.”

He shook his head.

“N-no, I’m okay, just…be nice?”

“Of course.” She smiled gently, her nose inches from his. He was breathing heavily, so impassioned and overwhelmed that frankly she’d be happy to have 

him just lie there, and absorb it all from him like a sponge. But at this stage, she had a better idea. She edged him away. 

“Maybe it’d be better to take this opportunity to take your pants off and put the…the condom on yourself,” she suggested. “It’s a little difficult to make that sexy. Best not try, at this stage.” 

“Um. Okay.”

He got up, as she’d suggested, and began chanting a mantra in his head, willing himself not to screw this up. It seemed in those long, cold moments of separation, that the removal of pants had never been so difficult or awkward in all his life. Then there was the condom. The innocuous packet of Necessary Yet Extreme Awkwardness. He stared at it for a few seconds, and then back to Jemma, who was leaning back on her arms, staring up at him with enthusiasm. 

“Oh.” She sat up straighter, and looked up at the roof. “I won’t look, if that helps.”

It did. The way she bit her lip and kept moving her gaze was distracting, but eventually, he got there. And then he laughed.

“What?” She struggled to keep looking at the roof, like she’d promised.

“Nothing – sorry,” Fitz apologised, shaking his head, still laughing. “It just feels so…I mean this whole thing…who would have guessed, right?”

“Well, apparently everybody we’ve ever met.”

“Apparently.”

Simmons pursed her lips before she could laugh too. She dug her fingers into the rich bed sheets, reminding herself where they were and why.

“Come on,” she insisted. “Hurry up, I’m getting cold.” 

“Wh- ah – what do I do? With…it. What do you…like?”

 _What was that?_ Complete mental blank. In his head, Fitz could hear the whistle of a downed plane, falling through the air, about to explode on impact with the ground.

“Well,” Simmons explained, clean and matter-of-fact, channeling her desire to laugh into a hand clenched in the sheets. Fitz could easily see it as laughing at him, not with him, and he sure as hell didn’t need that right now. “Some people put, you know, the tip in first and get further in as it goes along, or some people…dive on in there and get used to it first before they start moving around.”

“Uhh…”

Apparently, she hadn’t resolved his predicament. She may have just made it worse. So much for not killing the mood. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, you’re making love to me, not giving me an ultrasound. Trust with your intuition. Your body knows what it wants, and so do I. Get back in here, under the covers this time, and we’ll start over.”

It wasn’t the last time one of them froze up, or started laughing, that night. It wasn’t the last time Fitz lost faith in his body’s directions, or Simmons had to help him, or help herself, but eventually they found their rhythm. The fire burned down to embers as wanton groans and exclamations gave way to exhausted, satisfied gasps and sighs. Their bodies stilled, and as Fitz cleaned himself up, Simmons shoved the thick blankets away, so that only a sheet covered their shoulders: so that they could cool off from their exertion without immediately freezing. Comfortable, she huddled into the spoon-shaped hug Fitz was offering, and pulled his arm over her, intertwining their fingers as his breathing slowed and evened out, so that they fell asleep holding each other.


	7. Plot Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> January Prompt #3: Unnatural  
> Mild angst. Canon divergent.

“Who wants to go first?” 

Malick grinned. He knew what to do to make one or the other of them act, and all three of them knew he was not afraid to pull teeth or spill blood to get there. 

 _Hurry up, Daisy,_ Simmons pleaded. She’d fought so long and hard she could barely stand up now; her captors’ grip on her arms was a painful, but steadying force. If nothing else, held up like this, she could lock eyes with Fitz – grateful, savouring that they hadn’t been separated – and beg him not to give in to Malick’s demands. They were so close now. They had to be. 

“Come on,” Malick insisted. “We haven’t got all day. Your little friends are coming, and if they get past the west corridor, they’ll only find one of you waiting for them.” 

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Simmons retorted. “We all know that if one of us touches the Obelisk, we’ll die anyway. I’d prefer a bullet to the head right now over crumbling to pieces, thank you very much.”

Malick eyed her over slowly, drawing his pistol, trying to work out whether she was serious, and what he should do about it if she was. Suddenly, it occurred to her what he was probably about to do. Her mouth dried instantly, and she lost all feeling everywhere lower than her head.

_No._

Before she could blink, the nose of the gun was raised. It was a few feet from Fitz, but not far enough that he’d be able to move out of its way once the trigger was pulled. 

“No-“ Simmons gasped.

“- I’ll do it!” Fitz cried. “I’ll try it. Give it to me.”

“No, Fitz!” 

Simmons kicked out, to no avail. Unfazed by her outburst, Malick shrugged, and gestured for the Obelisk crate to be taken to Fitz.

Fitz watched Simmons with wide, tearful eyes. If they could delay Malick with the guise of a tear-filled goodbye, that would be fantastic. If they could not, and if this was indeed to be his last few conscious minutes on this earth, he wanted her to know that it was okay. That she – nor her anger, nor weakness, as she might see it - was not to blame. And most importantly – most heartbreakingly – he wanted her to know that he trusted her to know what he wanted. His last will and testament, his last thoughts and prayers and words on this earth were her, incarnate. 

“Fitz,” Simmons repeated, the tears spilling over her cheeks at long last. Despite the binding hold of her guards, and likelihood that she could not have managed a step forward, as battered and exhausted as she was, Simmons wanted nothing more than to embrace him. The desire was all the more strong for being held back: as it was, she could do nothing but hold her breath and try to stop her mind spinning as Fitz’ eyes finally fell from her face, to the potential instrument of his death, only inches away. 

His breath shuddered. His guards had to visibly lift him as his weakened knees threatened to give way. 

“Okay,” Malick huffed, and cocked his pistol. “Three, two –“ 

Fitz looked up at Simmons one last time as he raised a shaking hand, and dove in. 

Simmons’ jaw dropped in horror. Fitz’ heart stuttered, his lungs forgetting how to function briefly, as the strange, circuit-esque patterns on the surface of the Obelisk lit up with a soft silver glow.

“That’s…” he stammered eventually. “That’s not right.”

The door to the room exploded inward. A bolt of lightening sent Malick careening across the room, as a snarling Lincoln led the team into the room. Bullets flew, their guards abandoned Fitz and Simmons to collapse and crawl to each other, and try to escape the firefight. 

“What did you do?” Simmons wondered, breathless, once they had scrambled behind some nearby crates for cover. 

“Nothing.” Fitz’ voice trembled. He stared at the Obelisk, which he cradled between them, with amazement. “I just touched it."

“That’s not right,” Simmons repeated. “You should have – I mean, it should have been gold. The light.”

She reached out a hand, entranced, to touch it, and Fitz pulled it away from her. Biting his lip, he unbuttoned and removed his over-shirt and wrapped the Obelisk inside it. Both of them felt instantly better with it out of sight. Together, they caught their breaths as the fighting behind them died down. 

“FitzSimmons?” Lincoln called.

“Here." 

With a great deal of effort, Simmons waved an arm above their barricade. As she did so, she met Fitz’ eye. How were they going to explain this? Did they really ever want to find out what it meant? If not, would they ever be able to truly let it go?

Fitz cleared his throat, and staggered to his feet.

“Um,” he panted, waving to greet Lincoln, Daisy and Mack. “Something really weird just happened.”


End file.
